


Hellish Trial

by vaebled



Category: DmC: Devil May Cry
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Hell, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28697286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaebled/pseuds/vaebled
Summary: She went to hell for him, to prove herself.
Relationships: Vergil (DmC)/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 1





	Hellish Trial

It had a lot more to it than the Catholic fire and brimstone; There was something beautiful about its trickery, how it shaped itself to fit one’s memory, how it showed one’s every thought, dream, and nightmare - and while it wasn’t terrifying in its most conventional sense, fire and flame singing stray threads, hands of demons thrust forth to pull one into its depths, it was frightening in that no matter where _she_ looked, all she could see was _him_. A deadly play on her emotions, gloved fingers brushing the ball of her chin in so brief a point of contact, a thin line pulling into a considerate smile drawing her ever further across platforms, twisted memories, beckoning her into the horrors she sought anyway. Where logic was at play, emotions were soon to overpower it and the steady yet quick beating of her heart at the sight of _him_ , dreamy, ethereal even in a realm she knew he wasn’t, the invasive heat of Hell was oh-so inviting, enveloping.

He didn’t speak, always a quiet sort until something deserved his attention; It got _that_ bit right, but even still, her King would have greeted her with more than just a knowing glance and the touch of his fingertips, she was sure, but still, she followed. One foot after the other at an almost methodical pace, she trailed after her beloved, a spectre of his otherwise imposing, lordly form, and as the world shifted and broke apart around her, beneath her feet, she wondered if it were accurate to say so at all. No, no, _it wasn’t_. The displeasure and the _anger_ in his eyes, she knew he’d not be happy with her, were this illusion truly him. She would see him relieved, then she would see him bursting at the seams, palming at new and old scars alike, his grip on her shoulders that of iron. It wouldn’t be a sweet kindness and he wouldn’t have led her anywhere else but his arms, so agitated in nearly every way– And yet still, she was taken in by a _ghost_.

She closed her eyes for but a moment, every irrational part of her accepting the softness in the fluid imposter, and though it was impossible to rip herself away from the dream that would inevitably become a nightmare, she had to; Teeth drew between them her lower lip and with one false swish of his fingers, she pooled her now scattered will, pulling from her innermost reaches, and fighting against Hell’s dominating influence. She wasn’t here to feel his love, nor a hollow, meaningless copy of it. No. What she very nearly killed herself to do…was to test herself, face the demons that so sorely wished to keep her hidden, tethered to their seemingly endless pits of despair and misery - and, to finally _devour_ her. She was an insult to their ways, their very existence; All hybrids were. Nephilim, cambion - the children that should never have been. They were threats, and weaknesses, representing infallibility, and their lineage alone was enough to boil their blood. She was the mate of a son of Sparda, the daughter of a general herself, and were it that she were anyone else, she would have been a flame easily snuffed - but she prevailed when the pipers came to collect, escaping time and time again with her life, and though she’d walked into their territory, she was determined to come out alive once more.

Her life was never theirs to take.

Faint crackles of electricity sparked and danced between shaky fingers and as she stood in place, solid, immobile, she opened her eyes to face a world changed into a nightmarish, horrific landscape, the nearly perfect copy of her mate, her king, standing several meters off, something statuesque about him, stolid, _agitated_. Fractured reflections of times long past broke the earth around her, from her dilapidated childhood home to the pieces of the bed she would hide under when her mother was at her worst, broken windows, splinters of her bathroom door, every vivid, lucid terror she would see in her sleep– It all swam in a red sea, taunting, pricking at heart strings she’d thought had long since been cut. There would be no mercy from the depths of Hell, only the cage of her memories, dull heartache, whispers of her mother’s voice, threatening, unkind, _sharp_. Where once she’d of thought it all a weakness in her character, she no longer believed herself a troubled mess of a woman, but someone worthy of the strength she bore when the dust had settled and the smoke of catastrophe dissipated - and Hell, oh, it did not like that, nor did its manifestations and machinations of sin.

Bianca shifted on her feet, glancing into sparkling portals and dark whirlwinds, gaze flitting from visions of her mother’s face to the broken world surrounding her, its elegant, pleasing trappings falling away to display its true self, no longer keeping up its deliberate attempt at manipulating the emotions she’d all but blocked out, compartmentalize, and _defeat._ Its desire to toy with the softness of her heart quickly fell away to that of intimidation and were it that she’d not made it so far, the reality of fresh wounds and an agitated dislocation would’ve proven a discouragement, but, the gravity of her condition went ignored, shrugged off, _suppressed_. No doubt her blood was as hot as the flames, but it had all begun to run with the sweat trickling down her spine, slicking her skin, and though the pain had rushed to the forefront of her mind, she could not afford to waste anymore time. An hour had felt like days, days at felt like weeks, and before she knew it, time had all but begun to run together and she could no longer tell how long she’d been gone - and she could guarantee her mate had begun… to lose his hope.

Straw yellow lashes hung low over bloodshot blue and soon her gaze came to rest on Hell’s shadow, taking in the synthetic lie of the son of Sparda, sizing him up, picking apart every detail of his stance. Oh, how similar to her beloved he was. Were she not still entranced, caught in a web of falsities, she would’ve believed him to be of true form, but she knew better. She’d always known better. Flame roared to life in the seat of her hand, burning at her skin, blue with the heat of her determination, her will, and though he appeared unimpressed, she could tell that he was ready to unsheathe his sword - she needed only to approach, to wield her elements as the weapons they were.

How cruel it was that her final trial would be a fight she couldn’t win, that her final battle would be with her King. A pretender, a lie, though it may be, still uncanny in appearance, demeanor, and, she was certain, _ability_ … Lips smacked and a tongue clicked, ice spreading over marred flesh, every muscle in her otherwise frail, _human_ body readying themselves to bear the brunt of blow after blow, skin hardening as if a shield with snow and ice in preparation of cuts and slashes. It was bittersweet, she would say, that she would have to push what power she had left into protecting herself and defeating _him_. She almost laughed.

“Hell has always been a place for punishment, isn’t that right?” she muttered softly, to herself, sharply inhaling and taking a single step forward. Flame and electricity gave way to protective sheets of cold and crystal, every emotion she’d ever felt held viciously at bay. She would not so easily give in. “I’ll beat this, I’ll win, and then I’ll go home…to _him_.”

And she was off, feet pounding into ash and dirt, racing to meet bitter steel.


End file.
